


More of Estella

by lottiezeb



Category: Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7737301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lottiezeb/pseuds/lottiezeb





	More of Estella

I  
A greyish, sifting fog blanketed the yard’s scrubby vegetation, and as Estella took each slow and deliberate step her boots left crunch after slightly- soggy crunch. Casting her eyes about her as she strolled, she wondered idly as she had so many times before at the manner in which the abandoned gardens of Satis House seemingly could not make up their minds as to whether they wanted to grow wild or limply rot, and so in their confusion had somehow settled on a dissatisfying combination of the two.  
For all of her years away from the place, she still knew it by heart – every crumbling corner, every rotting post and wilted leaf seemed to have remained exactly as she had left it years before. She was the only thing about the whole place that had changed; though, she reflected as she twisted and shredded the petals of a rose she had plucked, whether she was most akin to a jewel that had been cut, a flower that had blossomed or a knife that had been sharpened, she could not yet say with complete certainty.  
She stopped suddenly and knelt with a wry smile crooking her mouth. There was a little nook at the base of the great stump she now examined, and she drew closer to look inside. She had crouched before this hollow many times before, diligently padding it with fresh moss and leaving crumbs of bread that she had secreted away from tea. She had forgotten how it was that she had first heard of fairies- most likely a servant had soothed her with tales of tiny folk on gossamer wings when she was fretful some night in her great dark bedroom. If so, that servant had long ago left Satis House to molder, either unable to stand the dust that coated one’s throat and the still clock faces that stared as if in mute, frozen despair, or due to the impenetrable whims of the once-woman who presided over it all. It did not matter now.  
The smile on Estella’s lips grew as she thought of the girl who had stubbornly shooed away the beetles and ants and left little bouquets of flowers nestled in the crevice, believing with the devout certainty of childhood that one day she would slip over to find that some delicate fay creature had taken up residence. She recalled with a surprised pang the nights that she had passed awake and unblinking in the darkness, (which managed to seem sickly and dusty and vaguely accusatory along with everything else she had known during her short lifetime) meditating upon the acquaintance she would undoubtedly strike up with the sylph- the nectar they should sip and the secrets they should share, and the favorable possibility that her new friend should be able to train a few lightning bugs to hover about her room at night, so that the dark should not seem quite so accusatory.  
The sound of rapid, eager footsteps startled Estella from this train of thought and in an instant she felt the tremulous thread that had connected her to that hopeful little girl snap. She rose with practiced grace and stared at the hollow a moment longer, before she kicked it full of dirt. She then smoothed her skirts and, as the scuffle of footsteps abated, turned calmly to face Pip, her gaze level and all traces of a smile vanished from her lips.  
II  
Careful hands brushed against the base of her neck, twisting and looping a coil of rich dark hair before gingerly tucking it among the mass of other tendrils piled upon her head. Estella’s eyes fluttered closed and she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the warmth of her servant’s hands before she opened her eyes again to give her reflection the kind of critical examination she supposed a cook might give a cut of meat in one of the markets that she saw through the carriage windows on occasion. What, she wondered as she traced the curve of her cheekbone with a light hand, would have become of her if she had not been beautiful? Green eyes blinked back at her in the mirror, their depths inscrutable. Would she have been returned to wherever she had come from with a letter explaining her defective nature? Cast out into the streets in disgrace, without a shilling to her name? Simply forgotten one day, and left to scrounge and lurk in the shadows with the mice and the spiders? Made to wait upon a new girl, a beautiful girl, just as this girl now waited upon her?  
A slight frown of irritation creased her brow as she tried to remember the maid’s name. It was Mary, or perhaps Martha. A common name of that sort. Estella’s gaze met the girl’s in the mirror and a second slipped by before the girl’s eyes darted downwards and she flushed crimson, fingers fumbling over the flowers that she had been pinning into twists of hair. Estella considered the maid’s features with more attention than she ever had before, taking in the drab sandy hair in its neat bun, the slightly snub nose, the lips pursed in concentration. It was certainly Martha, yes. Did the coin she earned –pulling tight Estella’s corsets, washing her with water that had been especially warmed for the purpose, buttoning her buttons, tying her laces, and silently traipsing about after her with a shawl -make its way back to a family with similar, slightly-snubbed noses? Had she a sweetheart who was bashful and tender, one who was made joyful with love? Had she friends who would laugh with her over nothing and cry over the same, only because it made her weep? In spite of those coarse hands and that sallow complexion, had she everything that was unattainable and unimaginable to her mistress?  
Estella’s head began to ache in anticipation of a full night of good posture and the elaborate piles of hair, and she jerked suddenly away from the servant’s hands. The girl flinched and jumped back a step. Derision curled in Estella’s stomach, and she raised her chin, adjusting the jewels that glittered upon her breast before standing and turning away with imperious coldness.  
“That will do,” she said.  
III  
"Dear Miss Havisham,  
Tonight I thought Drummle should trip over his great oafish feet as he guided me about the dance floor. I have started thinking of him only as Drummle in my mind, as it makes him seem less a man than some newly discovered lower beast: the rare Drummle of the American Great Plains, distinguished among its fellows of the animal kingdom for its thick hide and surly disposition. You will be glad to learn that I floated effortlessly through waltz after waltz, past clumps of sulky and wistful gentleman watching from the edges of the room. They pulled anxiously at their gloves and followed my every movement with a kind of despairing rapture. Drummle smirked whenever he caught sight of them, of course. (Scientific observation: the beast thrives on competition and cannot resist preening before the weaker of its kind in a crude assertion of dominance.)"  
Estella sighed. That would not do. This was, after all, a letter to her sole benefactress; the woman whose sunken eyes glinted through the haze of Estella’s earliest memories, whose cracked whispers acted as her lullabies and nursery rhymes. She crumpled the paper and drew forth a new sheet to try again.  
"Dear Miss Havisham,  
I get along very well here. Mr. Drummle is as entirely smitten as men of his kind have the capacity to be. If you had not taught me such things from my infancy onwards I would still have no uncertainty in declaring it so, because I have seen it many times over now. His hands remain upon my waist a heartbeat longer than they should, and his leer is only slightly smothered by his whiskers. We were breathing in the heavy summer air out on the terrace, when he brought a hand to my chin, raising my eyes to his. Then he whispered this in my ear: “So, the ice princess begins to melt, does she?” His breath was hot, and I pictured myself the ice princess that he named me. The droplets of crystal dangling from my ears dripping and spattering upon the terrace as his words coated me. I would grow slick to the touch, then, and my features would blur and warp and winnow as I trickled away, soaking into the bones of the earth.  
The feeling of his hand upon my chin has not faded, though I write to you hours after the ball has concluded. Perhaps if it does not go away it shall begin to rot my skin, revealing the bloody raw mess that pulses beneath, and the gaunt grinning spectre of my skull. What shall become of my marriage prospects then, I wonder?"  
A laugh bubbled in her throat as she crumpled this letter and tossed it aside as well. Such indecorous thoughts had no place in a young lady’s mind, no doubt. Even a young lady such as her. Estella stretched, and yawned resignedly, twirled the pen in her hand. She turned to a fresh page and stared at it for a long moment, thinking, then rose from the desk in resignation and a swish of nightgown silk. It was clear that she was not in the proper state of mind to complete a seemly letter. And after all, she had already spent an unholy amount of time tonight doing Miss Havisham’s bidding. The letter could wait till the morrow.


End file.
